by Maria Riva
“What exactly is your husband’s business?” Jane asked, trying to be polite.
“He deals in the latest bathroom fixtures.” The tip of her tongue recapturing a dollup of errant cream, Camilla continued, “Of course nothing shoddy, only the latest designs. We own two stores and by the first of next year we will have another in the most prominent section of the city. Last summer we had our very own seaside apartment in Viareggio, where only the best people go. And Giovanni? … Still a happy mechanic?”
“He builds and establishes new factories for the Henry Ford Motor Company,” retorted Jane.
“Oh—” Camilla’s pout hadn’t changed from how Jane remembered it from when she was seventeen and in a snit. “Well, I really should be going. Julietta and Faustina have a piano lesson.”
“Wait—please—I can’t find Teresa—do you know where she is?”
“Oh, I heard she was somewhere in France—no … maybe it was Belgium, I really haven’t the slightest idea. I know that Antonia—she is still in Milano with some man—but Teresa—who knows?” This last was said with such an intonation of and who cares? that Jane wanted to slap her. “I must go—it was really a delight to see you again Giovanna, after all these years. Maybe the next time you are in Torino—we must all get together—perhaps you can join us for one of our dinners—we entertain a great deal—it is so important in business you know. Mario is considering going into politics. He thinks his friend Benito Mussolini, only he can bring our country back to the glory of the Caesars.”
Jane paid the check, while Camilla objected in that exaggerated, effusive denial that usually denotes a serious lack of sufficient funds to do so, then quickly capitulated with the time-honored “Well, if you insist! And now, I must run. Give Giovanni a little kiss from me—just for old time’s sake—nothing serious!” She giggled, “Ciao!”
And Camilla heaved her spreading body off the café chair and waddled off in the direction of the tram stop.
Letters from Ebbely—one for Jane, the other for John forwarded from Rumania arrived in Italy in late July. As they had been written before receiving the news of Michael’s death—they were filled with snippets of news not condolences.
My Dear Child,
I hope this finds you well despite lascivious gypsies and salivating wolves that have a tendency to circle innocent damsels lusting for their blood in the flickering light of lonely campfires in deep, dark forests. Composing this, I’ve frightened myself. Still do be careful—Rumanians, even those not of gypsy lineage are notorious scoundrels as everyone knows.
This is but a short epistle to inform you that all goes well with your so humble servant. I play, they applaud, I am paid, then partake of a succulent repast superbly prepared by my employer and then I am off to welcome Morpheus. A repetitive existence but one that having chosen it over all others, satisfies at least that part of me that craves attention. I herewith enclose my address in case you should wish to send me news from that far off continent where your husband transported you despite our wails of woe.
Remember me to those delightful sons. I am as ever your devoted friend,
Ebbely
Dear John,
Here all is as expected. Life is lived as though a beginning and an end are unnecessary. It takes a great deal of energy to live in the moment and so I am usually exhausted.
Our brave soldier postman having succumbed to the tall tales told of waiting wealth, took his bride and left to pan for gold amidst the rugged rocks of some heathen state out West. A one-armed prospector he was determined to be and nothing I could say could dissuade him. I really do not know how I shall ever explain this to dear Hannah—who will surely blame me for not doing my proper guardian duty by her sad lothario.
As for me, I now play the Spanish guitar with such skill that I even amaze myself and getting recompensed for enjoying myself, that astounds me even more.
By the way, thought you might like to know, the fair Evangeline has become a Mama. On the ninth of April she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy that the Flivver King simply dotes on. So much so, and so publicly that gossip abounds. They say he is so besotted Ford is in constant attendance at the Dahlinger spread, lavishes gifts upon the babe as though it were his very own. Even insisted the boy have the cradle he himself occupied. As you can readily imagine not only Detroit, the whole of Michigan is buzzing. Evangeline named the boy John—known far and wide as Johnny—a most interesting choice, wouldn’t you agree?
I am afraid that what we all feared, tried to hide was all for naught. Hannah read one of Ford’s venomous tirades and took to her bed. As I had instructed Fritz to telephone me if and when such a day came—he did and I spoke to her at length hoping to cushion not only her shock but her understandable fear. With a rejuvenated Ku Klux Klan marching to its racist drummer and Ford to his—I have the distinct feeling the time may not be too far off when the Geigers will perhaps make the once inconceivable decision and leave this country for their less prejudiced homeland.
What about this new prime minister in Italy? Isn’t he the one who led the fascist on their march on Rome? That’s a strange bedfellow for King Emmanuel. Over in Germany it seems no better but at least there that Austrian rabble-rouser is safely in jail. Here anything political happening in Europe is hidden on the back pages—if then. But how is it there? Do let me know, for it seems to me that the pot is beginning to simmer all over again despite a so recent war won.
You are missed dear John, you are sorely missed for many reasons.
As ever,
Ebbely
While in England having been made even more aware of the political situation developing within Italy on his return, John confronted his father in his study.
“Damnit! Why wasn’t I told?”
As she passed the closed door hearing John’s anger, Jane stopped to listen.
“Told? Told you what?” John’s father sounded equally annoyed.
“The riots! Last year you had riots—the Socialists, the Bolsheviks—right here in Torino—and a march on Rome by radicals calling themselves Fasci di Combattimento—and no one thinks of writing me about it? My God! What is the matter with this country? Are you all so used to political chaos that no one gives a damn anymore?”
“Don’t use that tone with me. I am still your father.”
“Well then if you insist, as a father it was your duty to warn me before I took my wife and children away from the safety of America.”
“Safety? You have Bolsheviks, you have Socialists. You have strikes.”
“Ah, but being a democracy we still choose our leaders.”
“So do we.”
“You may think you do—but achieving political power through organized violence, intimidation even murder can’t survive in a true democracy.”
“So now the country of your birth means nothing to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I love Italy. If I didn’t I wouldn’t mind it going down the shit hole, the way it is.”
Looking for a match to light his cigarette, John’s father remarked, “You know, Giovanni, America has made you coarse.”
“Not coarse, Papa …” John offered him a light, “only honest. True democracies have a way of fostering that.”
“You do know that these Fascistas are now a recognized party and that their leader is our respected prime minister.”
“Oh, I know. Remember I am about to build an American factory—financed by an American company in a country run by Fascists who now demand that grown men no longer shake hands but salute each other as if they are playing at being Roman soldiers. How I’m going to train men to work a moving assembly line who every time a Fascista walks by have to raise an arm—is just one of the thousands of impossible problems that your—what do they call this Mussolini now?”
“Il Duce and don’t think you can just dismiss him. He says he will bring discipline a
nd order—and even you will have to admit that this is what Italy needs now. We must clean house—become a united country for the good of the people.”
As though their discussion was at an end, John’s father put on his coat he had draped over the back of a chair.
“Through a revolution?”
“What? What are you talking about now?”
“Control, Papa. Control. Control is power and power is control—that’s what these Fascists are after. Make the Poplulari, the Catholics, perhaps even the Vatican dance to your tune and only your tune and what you have is ultimate power. I have seen it for myself and I know.”
“You are exaggerating as you have always done whenever you can’t get your way.”
“I thought coming back would be exciting. A positive challenge, a chance to demonstrate American excellence, renew confidence after a terrible war in the dependable abilities of an Italian labor force. But all I see is that besides the killing, the war achieved nothing. Nothing has changed—it’s still the same old, never-ending political shit!”
“I told you I won’t have this kind of language in my presence.”
Sensing John was about to storm out of the room Jane fled.
The chestnuts were coming into their special season when John returned from England this time with news that they would be moving to the far-off city of Trieste that overlooked the Adriatic Sea.
“I found a nice house. It sits on a bluff—from the front door you can see the sea and there are climbing roses and a fence around the garden where Billy can play and John will be able to walk to school.”
To be mistress of her own house again—Jane would have happily gone to Timbuktu. Trunks were repacked—farewells said—and John prepared to shepherd his flock across Italy.
Trieste, that beauty queen serving many loyalties, conquered by many, belonging to none, having been a sought-after pawn of war had been returned to Italy in 1919 as war booty for having chosen to cast its lot with the winning side. Its Austro-Hungarian Empire past having imparted a certain sophistication, where one might expect a major seaport to be rough and ready, Trieste behaved as though its acclaimed position on the Adriatic was solely due to the imposing perfection of its coastline—the elegance of a harbor adorned by buildings reminiscent of Roman glory embellished by the Greeks. Just as Venice, its glorious cousin across the water, anything as mundane as trade seemed but a sideline to its existence.
Though small their little house was comfortable—in the summertime its shaded garden a perfumed pleasure. It seemed in no time at all—it felt like a home.
During these years like the sea below, Jane’s life seemed to take on the rhythm of the sea. Young John started school, then it was Billy’s turn to feel grown-up. Because their daily language was now Italian, Jane decreed that now their at-home language would be English. Billy was particularly pleased with that new rule. Through the kindness of Agnes and her talent for scrounging, Jane and the boys received a steady supply of books in English to read and be read to. Her librarian talents challenged by what would interest growing children as well as a homesick mother—some Edith Wharton arrived, a little O. Henry, Poe and London for the boys and Mark Twain for all of them. It was fortunate that she did for it would be many years before the boys would once again face American schooling and by then having been exposed to only English literature, without Zoltan’s Agnes, Jane’s son’s would not have known their own country’s masters.
Ebbely’s letters together with news snippets from Hannah and Agnes kept Jane from losing touch with America. What intrigued her often were the different perceptions—of three such opposites when writing giving their opinion on like subjects. Mentioning the recent publication of Henry Ford’s autobiography, Agnes referred to it as “not at all well written,” commented as to its lack of literary quality, while Ebbely concluded that “after the boycott of the Jewish Community of the carmaker’s Model T, probably someone in his public relations office had the bright idea to polish Ford’s somewhat tarnished image by refocusing the public on his rural beginnings and the hero of the common man.” A disenchanted Hannah simply ignored it as she now did the man she once had respected—even idolized.
Often in the evenings after supper John would share his letters with Jane—and she hers.
Peter’s were always centered on the latest improvements of the Model T, his unbridled enthusiasm of the latest, the balloon tire took up two whole pages that ended with the proud remark “of course our Lizzie is the only motor car in the whole wide world who has ’em!” Carl too mentioned such possible innovations as “wipers” that when it rained could wipe the windshield, an idea for a mirror for seeing to the rear, even a light that would indicate whenever their Tin Lizzie stopped. He wanted to know what conditions were like in Europe—how the building was going, how soon production could begin and what John thought of the men; while his wife informed Jane that Hudson’s Department Store had unfurled the biggest American flag ever made and that all of Detroit was agog.
Like Ebbely, Zoltan was mostly interested in the political climate—but even he could not resist a little bragging about the little machine they all loved so well … that to celebrate the fifteen millionth Model T built, a transcontinental publicity trip on the great Lincoln Highway was being organized with 15,000,000 emblazed on the side of Lizzie’s black body in thick white paint.
Having heard of Michael’s death, Rudy had written his deep sorrow then added the news that Ford was preparing to build aeroplanes including a Ford Airport to fly them from. The news of a five-day workweek everyone celebrated. The Prince of Wales had actually paid a royal visit to Highland Park and the Ford Company having bought out Leland Motors—was now in possession of their magnificent Lincoln, truly a car for the most uncommon man.
Despite the invigorating challenges and subsequent rewards of his new position, there were times when John felt he might have made the wrong choice by accepting Henry Ford’s promotion—then reminding himself that such a choice had actually never been offered him, he quickly schooled his budding frustration and got back to work.
Removed as they were from the daily political turmoil that was turning the rest of Italy into a Fascist dictatorship, for Jane these first years in Trieste held a certain benign unawareness until Billy was old enough for fourth grade and rebelled. Well, not actually rebelled but put up a mighty fine fight against the latest dictum—having to wear the regulation black shirt to school. The Roman salute—that he didn’t mind so much … it had a history and seemed brave—but the symbolic black shirt; that he hated. Of course it didn’t help his case that his brother wore anything even remotely connected with Fascism, with obvious pride and flourish.
At first Jane reprimanded her far too outspoken son—then tried to explain the rituals insisted upon by Mussolini, whom she secretly objected to.
“Billy, you know what a king is?”
“Of course, Mama, he’s the Big Boss, like Mr. Ford.”
Jane hesitated, wondering if she should tackle that misconception, then deciding that one could wait, went on, “Well, here in this country there is also a Big Boss, who wants everybody to do exactly what he says and gets very angry if they don’t.”
Interested, Billy asked, “And he is the one who wants scratchy black shirts?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, I suppose—it’s like soldiers. They always have to wear what others tell them they must.”
“If I wear my black shirt I’ll be a soldier?”
“No—no one can make you be a soldier—your black shirt will only make you look like one.”
“And then the Boss will not be angry?”
“And your teacher won’t get into trouble.”
“But it’s hot!” Billy stamped his foot.
“But it is now the law—and so you will obey,” countered his mother.
“Why? Why is
it the law?”
Already dressed for school, John, now a self-assured eleven-year-old, entered the room.
“Because, stupid! The leader of the ruling Fascist Party has ordered it.”
“Okay if you’re so smart—what’s a Fascist?” Billy challenged.
Eager, John rose to the test. “A Fascist is the best, the strongest, the bravest soldier ‘for our glorious cause.’”
Adjusting Billy’s schoolbag on his back, Jane remained noncommittal.
“I’m not a soldier! Mama said so!” retorted Billy.
“Yes you are—every boy is—Il Duce says so …”
“John—you know what?”
“What?”
“You’re stupid!” And knowing his brother would hit him, Billy ran out of the room.
The very next day Billy had another problem.
“Mama?”
“Yes?” In a mood of frustration against the coastal winds, Jane was tying up the rampant roses for what seemed to be the hundredth time.
“Mama, is John going to feed me castor oil if I don’t do what he says?”
“Feed you? What are you talking about?”
“Put a big hose into my mouth so he can pour castor oil down my throat!” Billy sounded exasperated with his mother’s innocence.